Most definitely not an angel
by Lestrudel S
Summary: Irene Adler is dead; what the world didn't expect, though, was for her to have a daughter. A daughter whose father abandoned her and her mother before she was born. A daughter who is both astoundingly beautiful and outstandingly intelligent. A daughter whose father is Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**_Hello :) I've decided to write this fic because it experiments with different themes and pairings to what you can find in most of my writing. It's slightly AU in the fact that Sherlock is twenty three and John is twenty five at the start of the story, which takes place about three tears after the fall; they need to be younger here so that I can write their character properly later on.  
Anyway, enjoy, and be sure to post a review if you like it, and if you don't tell me why :) ~LS_**

Sherlock Holmes was many things; a genius, a freak, a smartarse, but not an angel, and most definitely not a father. He had deduced that his, for want of a better term, _girlfriend _Irene Adler was pregnant some time ago, and knew he had to leave. He hated himself- maybe it would have been better if he had at least said goodbye, or promised to provide for Irene and their child, but he didn't. He fled in the middle of the night, taking everything. To an untrained eye there was no evidence to suggest that he had lived there for three years, but both their eyes were far from untrained. Irene could see Sherlock's fingerprints in the dust that peppered the banisters and windowsills, could see in the mirror the effects that his departure had had on her. Her eyes were shadowed, her lips appeared thinner, and, of course, her stomach rounder. Sherlock had assumed she would have an abortion, but then the consulting detective did not understand his own emotions never mind those of the people around him. Or maybe that was what he had told himself to ease the guilt. He didn't want to think that there was a child, his child, growing up fatherless because of him. If he _had _to feel emotion he preferred it to be satisfaction rather than guilt; guilt was felt once in a blue moon, churning his stomach and filling his thoughts. It was most inefficient and, dare he say, unpleasant. Leaving demanded a certain amount of guilt, and lies and hopes were anesthetic, numbing the feeling and the pain though not completely. The thought that kept him going was John, revealing himself to his best friend. And though he couldn't expect to be forgiven, the guilt of abandoning him would be lessened, leaving him with less to feel bad about. Maybe.

* * *

"There's a letter for you." announced John, who was sifting through their post in a fashion unique to an army doctor, meticulous yet efficient. He held the letter out to his best friend, who was lying on their sofa, several nicotine patches applied to his arm. He lifted it and grabbed the letter without opening his eyes; he only did so as he ripped the cream coloured and textured paper, pulling out a letter printed neatly onto white paper. Sherlock unfolded it, impatiently progressing towards the reading of it's contents, although had he known what the contents _were_, he would have been less hasty. He read the letter three times, attempting to take in the information. He coughed, once, before placing the letter on the table, trying to ignore John's glance, although he knew what was coming.

"What is it?"

"It...it seems that I have a daughter."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Hi :) so this is the second installment. I've corrected the grammar issues that were kindly pointed out to me. As always, pretty please leave a review. I love feedback, good or con/crit :)_**

Charlotte stood by her mother's grave, feeling awkward in the expensive black dress; apart from that she was oddly numb. Shouldn't she be more upset? Probably. From the little information she had on her father she had worked out that he was a diagnosed sociopath, so maybe she had inherited some of his tendencies. Or maybe she wasn't bawling because they had never been close, what with her mother's line of work. Yes, she had still offered her _services _after giving birth to her daughter, although, to be fair, she had waited a whole five years before returning to work. By then Charlotte was ninety percent self-sufficient. She didn't have friends, she didn't have any proper family. It was just her, and that was fine. More than fine. Although it would have been nice to meet her father once in her fourteen years on earth.

"The dominatrix in a grave, hm? I didn't think I would live to see the day."

Charlotte turned her head slowly to face the man standing maybe a foot from her, three-piece-suited and black umbrella in hand, despite the weather, warm and dry. He perhaps didn't see the sun too often, not often enough to gauge the weather by any means. He even looked uncomfortable under the shade of the large oak tree, squinting at the fourteen year old in through the blinding July sunlight.

"Were you a regular customer, if you don't mind me asking? Ah, no. You look a bit...well..." he looked at her quizzically, his eyes still adjusting to the odd amount of light. "Oh, I didn't mean that as an insult. I was merely stating the fact."

"You are remarkably like your father."

"That's odd, I'm usually told that I'm remarkably like my mother. But then again my father didn't have many friends, did he?"

"I'm not a friend, actually. I'm an enemy."

"Oh?"

"_Arch _enemies."

"People don't have arch enemies."

"Your father isn't people; he's barely a _person_."

"Look, I would _love _to hear you ramble nostalgically about my irresponsible father but I think it would be rather a waste of both our time, so you should get to the point."

"About fourteen years ago, when Sherlock discovered that your mother was pregnant, he left. Just...left. Came back to life- he had faked his death and was hiding with your mother, you see. I am now the only person alive who knows this."

"He trusts you, then?"

"In a way. Had we not grown up together he would have less trust in me than a mouse has in a particularly hungry cat."

"Ah, you're his _brother_. You'll have to forgive me for being slow on the uptake, we don't bear much resemblance. Why haven't you made contact with me before now?"

"It's...complicated. I've wanted to, many times. I've watched you your whole life- I apologize if that is somewhat unsettling, I'll admit to being slightly paranoid. I'm fiercely protective, you see, and looking after you was a way of making things up to your father."

"_Things_?"

"Ah...there's a black limousine waiting for us just outside of the cemetery. If you'll accompany me- not that you have a choice in the matter -then I'll explain everything on the way."

"On the way to where?"

"Dear me, Miss Adler. You didn't seem one to ask such obvious questions."


	3. Chapter 3

"You left. You knew Irene was pregnant and you just...left."

"I couldn't have been a father, John, surely you know that."

"You never visited, never made contact..."

"Why should I have?"

"Your daughter spent the first fourteen years of her life fatherless, Sherlock, and now she's lost her mother. You should have been there, right from the start."

"There's hardly anything I can do about that now, is there? So if you want me to be a father so badly, help me to get my daughter's room ready. She'll be here in about two hours."

* * *

"I didn't make contact with you, Miss Adler, because I couldn't. Your mother and I...we had an agreement. I could watch you, protect you, so long as I didn't make it clear that I was doing it. And by no means was I to let you meet your father."

"And how could she have enforced that rule?"

"Are you calling me a liar, dear niece?"

"No, _uncle_, I'm merely stating that the facts don't quite add up."

"Well, your mother had a kind of..._protection_. She was quite adept when it came to blackmail, you see. She had the Queen and country on it's knees at one point. Quite amazing, I have to say, although rather difficult to reprimand. She was sentenced to death, but your father saved her. If you remember only one thing that I ever tell you, let it be that he _did _love her; they weren't together because he wanted sex, or he needed somewhere to hide."

"I don't believe that, for some reason."

"You should."

"Why?"

"Because it's the truth."

Charlotte sat in the back of the black limousine, watching the scenery passing them by, the bright sunlight fading into a bleak wash of clouds as the morning turned to afternoon.

"Your things are in the back, by the way."

"And the house?"

"Is yours when you turn eighteen, along with all of your mother's money. She didn't leave a will, but I assume that this is what she wanted."

She nodded slightly, still looking out of the window. She hadn't been to London before; her mother had had to stay away as she was assumed dead. She couldn't risk being found, because she really would have been killed. And god only knows what would have happened to her daughter- killed as well, most likely. It's not good to have too many Adlers or Holmeses running around at the same time, and a girl who was a child of both would be far too dangerous, even if she wasonly fourteen. Mycroft's protection had been more useful that Charlotte had first thought, it seemed, although he still wasn't quite trustworthy.

An hour and a half later, the limousine pulled up outside of a small cafe. Mycroft watched his niece climb out of the polished black door, briefly wondering when he would see her again. He didn't need to watch her anymore, and he had promised Sherlock to take the CCTV equipment out of 221b once Charlotte was there.

"Are you ready to go, sir?" asked Anthea, who Mycroft had forgotten was there. That didn't happen often; she was his personal assistant, almost constantly around.

"Just a minute, Anthea." replied Mycroft as his niece pushed open the door of 221b, carrying bags and suitcases behind her. All he could do was hope that Sherlock would look after her; John will if he doesn't, he reassured himself. If he had had it his was Charlotte would be living with _him_, but that wasn't his choice. She should be with her father if she couldn't be with her mother, no matter how incompetent or clueless on a parental level he was. Besides, Mycroft couldn't look after a teenage girl, he was busier than even his little brother.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, why did you lie to her?"

"How could I tell her that her father didn't _want _to see her? It was easier to tell her that he couldn't."

"I hadn't realized that you care so much about your niece."

"Yes, Anthea, I care. I'm putting myself at a disadvantage, but I do so almost willingly. Now, I think we should head back. I've indulged in sentimentality enough for one day."


End file.
